Harmony of Reveries
by silver-kin
Summary: It started with fantasies and ended with darkness. It starts again with reality and will probably end with darkness as well. A place in between what is real and what is not this is Demyx's world and his alone.


Inspired by and dedicated to the glass horses who came to me once upon a dream. Also dedicated somewhat to a friend of mine who showed me that life didn't have to be just about real things. I wanted to write this, and I did. Whatever comes after that just is.

Disclaimer : Kingdom Hearts belongs to Square Enix and Disney**  
**

**Harmony of Reveries**

_Each step he takes is accompanied by the soft crunch of the dry grass being crushed under his feet, the sound bouncing off the solid, brown bark and the leaves and echoing through the spaces between the trees. The leaves rustle their greeting as he walks, speaking in a language so old, so ancient. Out of knowledge he keeps in mind, he resists the urge to reach out and run his fingers along the wood as he passes by, attempting to ignore the unique markings carved innately into it._

_He doesn't know how many hours it has been since he last spoke; he feels as if he can hear every single change in the woods, the air around him is that still. Though in a way, that isn't quite true. The woods are filled with creatures, movements and silent breathing compressed into a tight, tense flurry of activity._

_Even if he doesn't see them, he knows they're there, silently watching his every move._

---

Demyx opens his eyes, squinting briefly into the darkness around him as he absently recalls where he is. Running a hand through his hair, he takes off both his gloves and stares first at his bare hands, then his palms. His fingers are exactly the way he remembers it; long and thin. If he reaches up and tugs at his hair hard enough, some of it will come off, and he'll have in his hands strands of blonde he does not know well enough yet to call his own.

Water droplets drizzle softly onto the ground. Some of the more sunken parts if the area are already gathering puddles in their reaches. The water reflects the black of the sky and the buildings that gives off a bluish glow. The yellow lights glow against the dark colors, merging into an easy harmony around him.

He inhales, breathing in as softly as possible. Closing his eyes, he pulls his legs closer to himself in a rather tight huddle, and pretends to forget his surroundings.

---

_Never trust the word of a Good Neighbor, especially those of the Salamanders._

There is a low hiss near his ears, threatening, and he immediately stops walking. He waits until the sound moves away from his ear, still whispering menacingly, before turning his head to look at the familiar red creatures.

If he didn't know better, he would call them fireflies, the small, winged elves. Their eyes are a soft, entrancing glow of orange, a light that dances like fire itself; the color draws him in every time, but he remembers the rule of fire and he manages to keep away most of the time. There is no noisy batting of the wings, echoing through the air, just the continuous hiss and the occasional crackles.

Briefly, he wonders if he should try his luck here. Surely there's no harm in asking a simple question. They couldn't possibly find anything to be offended about in an innocent question. But they are what they are, notorious for their short tempers. He had only just arrived; it would be such a waste to have to go back now, such a waste to get burned.

One of them flies closer and he sees every little fiery sparkle in their supposed wings. He has to squint now; the light emanating from them is always, always so startlingly right. Not daring to move, he only watches as the second closes in on him, hiss trailing off.

"What is it?"

He swallows, nervous. Hoping against hope, he silently prays that they would lose interest soon.

"It does not speak."

There is a silent pang of irritation at that; he almost frowns. How typical of them, saying things like that. Always so arrogant, so haughty, mocking the entire forest just because they knew they could get away with it. After all, who would tempt a child of fire amidst a world of trees?

"It wants something," the second elf says. "Look at it. It wants something."

"Tell us, it. What is it that it wishes for?"

He almost speaks then, despite having been here before and experiencing the effects of that mistake himself many times over. He manages to not, though, reminding himself that they were fire elves, not faeries. It is all a part of the game they play, nothing more; they already know what he wants. They always do.

"It is shy. It is stupid. Stupid it."

"Stupid it. We can help it, it. Tell us, tell us."

"Tell us."

"Tell us."

So he doesn't speak, waiting for them to tire of their little game and wander off.

Soot falls from their feet and their flame flickers a light, fiery red before returning to its original color. "There is not much time," one says, and the other echoes playfully, "time, time, time," ruining the menacing effect.

A smile tugs at his lips. So much for cooperation.

Growling in the direction of its companion, the elf hisses something inaudible before turning its angered face in his direction, wings turning dark red to suit its current emotion. "Regret."

"It will regret, surely," the other elaborates. "Take this chance, we say. It ignores."

"It will, foolish, foolish it."

Their growls gradually become softer as they turn around and fly away, spitting firecrackers off their wings. When they have disappeared into the woods, fully leaving his sight, he turns around and continues walking.

---

The air is still, he does not stir.

---

_If you have a question, hatchling, don't ask me. Ask, instead, those,  
who have borne witness to all since the beginning of time. Ask the Wood._

If he puts out his tongue, he's sure he'd taste the wet dew hovering in the air and the bitter mist that dominates this part of the forest. The fog moves to every corner occupied with space, trailing, dripping, and leaving the tell-tale sign of their presence behind as they pass; they remind him vaguely of the sly fox who stood on his hind legs, eyes inviting him to come closer to the hole which was his home.

Eyes watch the wooden forest, taking in the amazing size and ancient color; again, he has to resist reaching out to touch the bark of the trees. Old dying brown merging with slightly fresher wood colors, markings if similar creatures carved into their bodies. He moves to stand in front of the oldest-looking one and clears his throat softly.

The wood creature opens her eyes and stretches, wood straining as she wakes from her sleep. She turns her gaze on him, empty with knowing, leaves falling into the old young face. "Child," she says, mouth barely moving, "Child, why have you ventured so far?"

He inclines his head, a respectful gesture. "I am on a journey of sorts."

"Your purpose, what is it?" When he hesitates she presses for an answer. "Speak, child. The night grows older fast, ever older. Time is something we have not much of."

"I'm looking for something," he says, the words coming out at last.

"You are looking for something," she echoes, hard limbs stretching against the three she is eternally bound to, hands pulling from and legs pushing against in a long, tired attempt to pull free. "There is something you seek."

"Please," he says, hope sparking in his chest. "Can you tell me where I might find them?"

"The thing you seek is of great importance. You must find it, you believe." She falls silent, speaking to her drowsing companions who whisper their response in return. "Speak to them, ask them. Only they can help you."

She isn't finished, not yet; he waits.

"Where you may find them, the glass horses, this I can tell you not. Travel on, travel. Knowing they are, they will have heard of you." She looks at him, white pupils staring at him from the holes in the wood. "Before you meet them, you will first meet the lesser of their kind. The unicorn every person dreams of and their darker, more fiendish relatives. Pass these younger habitants of the forest and you will find them." She gives an almost yawn, closing her eyes as the last sentence leaves her dry mouth. "Once the time is found to be right, they will come to you."

The body goes limp once more; he considers the answer. It was somewhat satisfying, certainly more than anything he would have been able to extricate from the elves earlier. He turns and résumés the former act of walking; if the Wood had said they would come to him when they will, there is nothing else to be done but to wait, and perhaps walk.

---

_If you look into the water and see a reflection that isn't' yours,  
You will hear laughter echoing at the back of your mind, in your ear, all around you.  
When that happens, should that ever happen to you,  
Turn away, get up, and never look back._

Reflections are funny things; if a being could be mirrored by anything that reflects light, who's to say that something cannot, for instanced, be anything? Actually, anything can be something; just like everything is anything and anything can be nothing.

His own image is a distorted one on the calm surface of the water. Eve though there is no sea in this part of the forest, he isn't sure about the other side, the color of the lake ere is a deep sea blue with hints of seaweed green lost in the depths of water. If he gets up and stares hard enough at the middle of the lake, he knows he'll find a small portion of water tainted with the corruption of the merpeople, stained as black as any black, purely black.

He doesn't, however; instead, he continues to watch the small occasional ripples in the water, watching and waiting. It's a dangerous task, a risky thing to do, especially at such a time, but lingering memories hold hi there, an unmoving figure frozen by wants.

Finally, one pale hand breaks through the water's surface reaching out to him. He holds his breath, feeling the wet, scaly fingers on his cheek, sticky with the murky water. Another hand rises to join the first, and cold palms place themselves firmly against his two cheeks. More force is added, and he holds onto the wrist, not the hands, never the hands, as the other pulls herself up.

A ghostly face emerges, so white it puts the moon to shame, with thin black hair falling around her. The ends fall back into he water, floating lifelessly in it and forming an almost circle around the figure from the lake. Small ripples appear and the water relaxes once more gentle and quiet as the disturbances cease.

He knows he should leave no; even the shortest of moments is well beyond safe.

"Just a little more," he asks silently, directing the plea to no one as he stare into the black corneas, into the silver slit-like eyes that suck in everything, replacing it with false feelings of utter ecstasy. Already he can sense the naiad draining him, breathing in his very being with her gaze, drinking his life without so much as twitching and drowning him in imaginary water, bit by bit.

If he doesn't stop soon, he really will be drowning, in the lake of the forest. With this and this in mind, he reluctantly begins to pull the cold hands away from his cheeks; reluctant, but firm.

Immediately, the water creature's expression turns hostile. She bares her teeth at him, a soundless threat, and sharp nails dig into his skin, breaking through the topmost layer in an attempt to hold on. He winces at the sharp pain, but continues to tug the insistent fingers away until at last, there ins nothing left for her to hold onto, and when he lets go, she has no choice but to fall back once more into the water.

A muted splash announces her departure and none of the others who inhabit the lake appear; he gets up, touching the half-moon shaped indexes on his cheek, and noting the way his cheek bones have gone numb with the cold. When he looks at his fingers, there are smudges of dark red and he sighs; it seems like the visit from the bloodsongs later are inevitable; fresh blood always draws them close, regardless of how little the amount.

As he turns around, a harmony of voices raise up form the lake, haunting and entrancing.

He ignores the sirens' invitation to play and pretends to not see the way the water has gone from black to deep, rich ruby.

---

Fantasies are not real. They are merely a fiction of one's imagination, brought to false like in minds and dreams only; never the real world. They are things that one can truly, really believe to not be real, no matter how vivid, regardless of how much one wishes for them to be a part of truth.

Demyx knows this.

There is an element of escapism tied securely around the word 'fantasy'. People only consult the realm of myths and things that are not when they are in search of an escape from the reality. They only believe in such things when courage fails them; when they no longer have enough strength to face reality. It is like that for everyone, even himself.

When it is they choose to believe, of course, varies. Some people fantasize more than others; some fantasize as little as a minute a day. This aspect of the world is different in terms of him and the other people.

Also, everyone's imagination is unique. One word may mean the same when spoken by the tongue, but the voice of one's mind paints its own colors on such thing; comparing imagination to each other is like trying to find two identical snowflakes. Similar fantasies have common themes, but that is where the similarities end.

He believes in fantasies; he believes all the time, especially back then when everything was so normal it was suffocating. Now, now, he's not so sure.

In the other world, the one he first came to know, everyone moved in a rush; always in a hurry, always behind some form of schedule, always needing to be somewhere to do something. Ambitions clashed against the wave of competition as people fought for what they believed was rightfully theirs. Everyone trying to make a place of their own in the overcrowded world, bumping into each other and hissing their determination as the current was swept by itself.

Pressure oozed down from all sides and innocent words were twisted to pass on judgment, irrational belief and desire for what could but never will be. It smothered him, leaving him gasping for air in desperation for open space, away from the faces, from voices, and in the end, away from people altogether.

---

_Whilst you sleep, you see wonderful images,  
coming one after the other in a continuous flow,  
You wake up and feel contentment wash over your entire being.  
Do not think of how lucky you are, for having,  
the privilege of experiencing such a wonderful dream, instead,  
Be grateful it was not a nightmare._

In the middle is a clear spring; sounds of trickling water splashing contentedly against the rocks around the edges of it. The water is a light, transparent blue, a sharp contrast against the black of the night. Clear water met the light, healthy green of the grass which it itself was bursting with a magic he doesn't remember thinking about.

For a moment, he thinks he's stumbled into paradise. The next, he is sure about it.

Manes as beautiful a white as any white could be, the horses are a sight that takes his breath away; their skin are so pure, so lightly colored. Every movement they make is beauty itself, soft, gentle, graceful; like the way a dream would be. Their quiet neighing is barely audible and he thinks it sounds like children's laughter, ringing pleasantly in his ear as they gaze at him with those innocent and far too trusting eyes of theirs.

There are three of them, two are by the spring taking quiet mouthfuls of water, their horns pointing towards the small lake, barely touching; the other stands a few feet away from him, head raised in a question that originates more from long practiced steps of introduction than from any actual curiosity. The light reflects against the grand horns atop their prideful heads, making it seem to glow. The closest of the three neighs at him, moving forward a few easy, unguarded steps.

He turns around and runs away as fast as he possibly can, not caring which way he goes, just needing to get away, as far away as he dares to imagine.

Because behind every dream lies a nightmare.

Even as his feet touch and leave the ground at a pace so fast he doesn't feel it, he knows that they are already there. Hooves thundering in almost silence behind him, getting closer all the time; he hears warning in the sound, and forces his legs to move faster, pushing them past their limits and praying desperately to stay ahead of his pursuers.

Then, all of a sudden, the continuous rows of tress reach an end and he finds himself only a few steps away from a cliff. Skidding to a hasty step, he stops right before the edge and feels his stomach churn horribly when he sees the cliff reach down to a ground beyond his range of sight. Behind him, the hooves stop and he turns around to meet their gazes.

Creatures of the night, their bodies are completely opposites of their cousins; painted accordingly so, they wear a mane that is not quite one, instead a shadowy grey and black whispering into the breeze, blurring the air as restrained power seeps into it. Theses creatures have no grand horns atop their heads, just green mist seeping into the space around them and making them into a ghostly sight of many untruths lined up as one.

The mares in fro not him are just as beautiful as the stallions earlier, but their beauty leaned more towards threatening, promising a dark future. He shivers; the atmosphere has turned cold and he thinks he can see mist appear every time he breathes.

They neigh darkly at him, daring him to make the first move, and he feels the hair at the back of his neck stand up; he cannot find it in himself to move, not able to take the remaining steps backwards and jump into the unknown. It's all right, though; they make the decision for him and charge forward in unison.

---

His whole body gives a rough jerk and Demyx pulls back into reality with a startled gasp. A few minutes pass by quietly as he tries to slow down his ragged breathing, struggling to breathe normally, repeating again and again to himself words he cannot believe enough to really believe.

After a while, he's breathing at a rather safe rate but he doesn't relax instantly, thinking about the vivid almost dream.

Before, in his first world, he would close his eyes and imagine a world of impossibilities, He would escape the past life he was being forced to lead by slipping into a daydream; he set his own pace simply by not moving at all, sitting in the middle of a rushing crowd and letting their worries wash over before dripping away, leaving him unaffected. It was easier than attempting to live in reality; he preferred a world of magic, of imagination running wild.

Try as he might, Demyx never had a firm grip on reality. Details would escape him, necessity never bothered to introduce itself. Control, which is what he calls it, is important; it helps to see the line between what is real and what is not.

Control, he didn't have.

So when he wakes up in a world where anything can be real and just about everything is, in its own way, the place he knows as life shatters around him in a deafening crash. He feels like he's stumbled into open land, vast and empty with no trace of anything familiar, just nothing stretching on and on; he panics.

Feeling what scarce a grip he has ever had on reality slip away from beneath his fingers, he makes desperate grabs for it, needing now to see what was always almost non-existent again more than ever before; suddenly, the imagined world he keeps inside himself doesn't seem so immensely fascinating anymore, instead, a darker more sinister entity. It's like someone had only been lending the knowledge to him and now that he has become nothing, the owner had returned to reclaim his possession, because Demyx fails to catch it and the line slips further away.

Shadows shouldn't hurt him, light should heal him. In this world, this statement is as untrue as anything can be. It's like anything can be real and false, now that he knows about the darkness swallowing the worlds in its avarice for more. All a person has to do is believe.

The others here believe that they have lost their hearts to the darkness. He isn't sure if this belief is true or not but if everyone believes it then it must be so. Because of this, he chooses to believe that they still do have hearts; it is his sad effort to emulate his previous life, attempting to put life back it in its proper position. It changes little. He continues believing anyway.

His legs have begun to ache, probably from sitting in such an uncomfortable position for such a long period of time. Reluctantly, Demyx gets up and winces as his body protests at the new sudden movement. His lingers a little longer, blinking away his thoughts and tucking it away carefully in the back of his mind before making his way back to the castle.

Demyx has pushed the edges if the line to its limit and it will go no further regardless of how hard he tries; nothing changes though, because everything is still as confusing as before.

If there is no difference between fantasy and reality, does that mean life is just a number of reveries moving in harmony with each other?

---

_He runs his fingers over the hard black bark of the tree, eyes on the blood-red will leaves weeping on the soil. They are all silent, waiting for him to speak first, perhaps. He presses his fingers against the solid tree, considering, thinking of the best way to voice his question._

_Finally, he turns to the figures that aren't quite there and says, "Can you tell me the difference?"_

_They shake their heads, wavering in the air so that parts of them break off and disappears. Their skin is transparent, like glass horses, and he can see right through them, can see all the other trees behind him._

"_Why can't you? It's here somewhere, right?"_

_Again they shake their heads, their manes, neighing softly. Some thump the ground with their hooves impatiently, wanting him to hurry, wanting him to stop searching._

_He is quiet in the face of their reply. At last, he sighs and acknowledges the answer he has been looking; he accepts the answer he has always known deep within him._

"_You're right," he finally says, resigned. "There is no line after all."_

**End**

Thank you for your time!


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